


Decorating in England

by BrokenKestral



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Beautiful, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Home, Longing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27876778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenKestral/pseuds/BrokenKestral
Summary: Chapter 1: Susan and Lucy try to make their mother happy by decorating for Christmas. Chapter 2: Mrs. Pevensie misses her husband.
Relationships: Mrs Pevensie/Mr Pevensie
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Decorating in England

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I’ve never even been in England, what makes you think I own anything there?

“Susan!” Lucy called as she shut the front door behind her with one foot, “I have the broken glass!”

“Wonderful, what colors did you find?” Susan called back from the living room. 

“The church on Baker Street got hit. The priest said I could take anything left over from their windows, so-”

“So you have every color,” Susan rejoiced, suddenly framed in the door. Lucy stopped, her breath catching. For a moment Susan’s grace, her stance, her  _ voice _ rang through stone halls and made them rise around Lucy. Her sister stood as beautiful as a Narnian star but as gentle as a Robin’s wing.

Lucy blinked. She scolded herself internally, setting aside the sudden longing and firmly rebuking the sudden jealousy that whispered it wasn’t  _ fair _ . 

“How long till Mum comes home?” Lucy asked as she set down her basket. Susan’s gentle fingers were suddenly on the threadbare shoulders of Lucy’s coat, helping her little sister take it off and then hanging it up for her. 

“Not for another hour; we should have more than enough time,” Susan reassured. “Come see what I’ve done!” She gathered Lucy’s basket with one hand and swept into the living room. Lucy looked after her with a smile, love banishing the last hint of jealousy. Susan could be their home’s angel, beautiful in ways Lucy wasn’t, but her older sister also shared that beauty, multiplying it. The moment she found the pine branches in their firewood pile, she’d begun planning. She managed to stretch their firewood out, hiding the branches till today. Today, with Edmund and Peter at school and Mum working, she and Lucy began their Christmas surprise. 

Since returning from the country, all four had struggled to lift the loneliness settling on their Mum’s face during the moments she didn’t speak. Susan’s gift for decorating, for creating beauty that pierced and lifted up hearts, was at the core of their latest attempt. 

Lucy walked into the living room and again caught her breath. Susan had outdone herself.

She’d woven tiny garlands from the most broken of the pine branches—though the garlands were thin, she’d brightened them with the red ribbons the maids had given in the country. Lucy’s heart rebuked her; Susan had sacrificed her own hair ornaments for the Pevensie Christmas, using them to decorate the mantel. 

“There wasn’t enough for the stairs,” her voice said from the side of the room, and Lucy looked over to see the sad smile Susan gave to the greenery. 

“But there’s enough for in here. Mum will love resting in her chair now,” Lucy consoled her. “And I love the red and green, it looks like home.”

“Home had a lot more color and much grander branches.” 

“But this will be enough to make Mum smile,” Lucy said, determined to cheer Susan up, “and now we have the glass!” 

“And it will be perfect,” Susan agreed, her smile losing the sadness. She opened the cover and looked in, selecting one of the largest pieces, a brilliant blue color. She set it carefully to the side of the lantern on the mantel before looking back in the basket and pulling out a scarlet piece. The glass altered the light of the lantern, casting color all over the room.

“What else are we going to do?” Lucy asked, looking around. 

“I found some paper too wet to work for recycling, but I think we can still fold it into stars. And I found some green thread ends.” Susan gestured with one hand towards a stack of wrinkled, spotted paper sitting on the small side table. “Would you mind? I thought you could add some of the shapes the Owl librarian taught you.”

“Happily,” Lucy said, plopping into the chair beside the paper. “Flowers, stars, flutes, and birds to decorate our lovely tree—anything else I should create?” Susan shook her head, already lining the glass pieces up with each other, and Lucy smiled. Susan loved creating beauty, and Lucy admitted she’d learned that from Susan. Though...Lucy glanced at the Christmas “tree” and winced. Most fallen trees were dedicated to the war effort, so Peter and Edmund had made the family’s from logs stacked on top of each other, adding branches factories discarded as too small to burn. Their Mum had covered her mouth and taken moments to recover when she first saw it, but she smiled every time she passed the door and saw it. 

Lucy took the rustling paper, yellowed and ink-stained, and carefully chose the clearest side. She folded it in half, pressing the line clean. Under her breath, she began singing one of the songs with which the mermaids pierced starlit nights. 

A few moments later, as Lucy folded the last crisp edge and stuck a needle through the top, Susan’s clear voice joined Lucy’s. Lucy felt her own lips turn up in a smile. She let her own voice ring clearly through the room, joining Susan’s silver soprano, and bent over the next piece of paper, her lips still smiling. 

The next hour passed quickly, and each time Lucy brought a paper figure to the tree, she smiled more. The tree began to look less like a half-goblin Dryad and more like a work of art. Susan glued ribbon loops to some of the prettier pieces of glass and added a lace border around them before hanging them on the tree as well. 

“It’s lovely!” Lucy exclaimed, stepping back from hanging the last paper rose. Susan turned and looked at the tree with her own smile. 

“Yes, it is. Help me hang this mistletoe?” She held out the small sprig she held in her hand. 

“Where is that going?” Lucy asked curiously. 

“Over Mom’s chair.” Susan stepped carefully up onto said chair. “Just in case Dad makes it home,” she whispered. 

“Or so Peter and Edmund have to kiss her on the cheek,” Lucy added with a smile, but she blinked to keep the water from her eyes. She handed Susan the hook, and held her sister’s legs to help steady her. 

“Or so we can,” Susan agreed. She stepped down, Lucy letting her go. “There! Do you think it will make Mother smile?”

Lucy looked around the room, taking the garlands, glass, and paper. “Not quite,” she said suddenly. “Susan, what if we hung stars from the ceiling as well?” 

“Like the Great Hall on the night of the stars,” Susan whispered. “But we haven’t enough ribbon to hang them. If we hung the stars from thread, they’ll blend into the ceiling; we need color to draw the eye up. Perhaps if I cut the rest of my ribbon into scraps…” Her eyes flicked to the mantel, and she frowned. “No, we haven’t enough.”

“I have some! Ivy gave me some, when we went away, as thanks for helping her trap the hares and feed them clover. I’ll be right back.” Lucy raced up the stairs. Part way up, she realised, suddenly, that the room to the right of the stairs was  _ home _ , as much as Narnia had been. Home, because she shared it with Susan; home, because love dwelt here. Love for their mother, and their brothers, and each other. She scooped up the ribbons laying in the top drawer and ran back downstairs again. 

“Do we have time?” she asked breathlessly, rushing in to see Susan seated by the paper. Three stars already lay beside her clever fingers. 

“Perhaps, if we just hurry! Here,” and Susan shoved a part of the pile towards Lucy, “you fold. You’re better at it, and I’ll loop the ribbons.” Lucy smiled, seeing the challenge lifting Susan’s spirits as well, and handed the ribbons over willingly. 

“Race you?” she asked.

“Lucy! This must be done  _ well _ , not…” Susan trailed off. “Oh, very well. Race you!” She grabbed up the first of the four ribbons and the scissors, cutting off a sliver of blue. Lucy ducked her head, still smiling, and bent over her work. No matter how quickly she bent the paper into clean lines, Susan’s hands held another loop of ribbon and the glue pot ready. They’d made nine when a voice interrupted them.

“What’s this, then?” came the sharp question. Susan shrieked and looked up, and Lucy shoved her chair back. 

“Edmund!” Susan scolded, looking quickly back at her fingers and wiping a glob of glue off the ribbon. 

“Sorry, sorry, I just saw the paper and thought…”

“Thought?” Lucy prompted, when he trailed off.

“That tree is lovely,” he said quietly, having walked a step forward, “and the mantle is very Christmasy.” 

“Edmund, what did you think?” Susan asked, not letting his former tone go.

“I thought it might be a telegraph from the War Office,” he said in a reserved tone. “Silly of me, you’d hardly be making it into stars. Pax?” He smiled winningly at them.

“Pax,” Susan responded quietly. “I guess we gave you a larger fright than we had.”

“Then, in the spirit of our new sense of peace, perhaps I could help? What are you going to do with the stars?”

“Hang them from the ceiling!” Lucy explained. “Like in the Great Hall.” 

“A worthy idea. Here, let me grab the stool from the kitchen,” Edmund offered. He disappeared through the doorway and came back a minute later, stool in hand, before continuing as calmly as he’d finished, “and I’ll stand on it to attach the stars, if you’ll bring them to me?” he added, climbing up. 

“At once, good King!” Lucy grabbed two stars, careful to hold them by the drying ribbon ends, and held them up as far as her short arms could reach. Edmund took them with a bow, nearly overbalancing on the stool. 

“Careful!” came Susan’s quick rebuke, and Edmund grinned down at Lucy. 

“I’ll be as careful as I can, sis, but I’d hardly be a good knight if this task you’ve given didn’t have some danger I was guarding you from by doing it myself.”

“Try making it a responsibility rather than a dangerous task, and you’ll likely get through it with fewer bruises,” Susan responded dryly.

“I’m all for fewer bruises,” said a voice from the door, one gradually growing deeper. “Who is threatening bruises?”

“Peter!” Lucy exclaimed.

“Is mother on her way?” Susan asked with alarm.

“I saw the factory getting out on my way home, but I wanted to get home and start dinner for her, so I didn’t wait. She should be here shortly, why? Oh,  _ well done _ , you all!” Peter finished, stepping into the room. 

“But we’ve got more stars to hang before she gets here!” Susan exclaimed.

“Quick, Lucy, grab me another stool. Susan, start handing stars to Edmund; I’ll take two, as well. I can put them by the mistletoe and stand on the chair. Hurry, hurry!” 

Suiting action to words, Peter stepped on the chair, shedding his boots but not bothering to take his coat off. Susan handed a star to him with one graceful motion and handed another to Edmund. Lucy ran for the stool, ducking to the window to just check and see if Mum was in sight and grinning when she wasn’t. With the four of them together, they’d surely be done in time!

She lugged the stool back to the hallway, and Peter stood up from putting his boots away and took it from her with a smile. “Hand me the stars?”

“All the ones I can find,” she promised, following him in. Edmund already had half the ceiling covered, and Peter went right to the opposite corner. Lucy carefully gathered two handfuls of stars and went over to him. He smiled as he took two from her.

“Remember the night we decided to decorate Susan’s chamber while she decorated the Great Hall?” he asked in undertone. Lucy’s face lit with the brightest of smiles.

“She came up so tired. She stood in the doorway and all the tiredness fell away, because she was so happy,” Lucy whispered. Susan had looked like the world had just turned golden and warm and set itself in her hands. 

“I think you and Susan will see that on Mum’s face in just a few minutes. Seriously, Lu, well done.” 

“We couldn't have done it without you and Ed, not this last bit.”

“And what we are doing is our privilege,” Peter said. “As is joining in any good deeds.” He got down and moved the stool, hopping right back up. “There’s the last!” He hung it with gentle fingers, then glanced out the window. “Ed! Quick! I see Mum coming!”

“The stools!” Edmund yelled, jumping down from his own and grabbing it up. In a second, he and Peter disappeared with their wooden stands, only to reappear moments later. 

“Quick, around Mum’s chair!” Susan instructed, holding out her hands to gather two of them on either side. Lucy slipped around in front of Peter, his hand coming up to rest on her shoulder, and they waited with breathless anticipation. 

The minute it took their mother to walk from the street to the front door passed so slowly Lucy was  _ sure _ Peter must have been mistaken, but then the front door creaked. A moment later it shut with a soft  _ click _ . Their mother’s voice called down the hall, “Susan? Lucy? Are the boys home yet?”

“In here, Mum,” Peter answered in his strong voice, and Lucy’s smile became irrepressible as she heard footsteps coming down the hall. 

“All of…” and their mother’s voice died away as she entered the door and saw the tree, the mantel, even glancing up to see the stars. 

“Merry Christmas!” chorused the four children. Mrs. Pevensie laughed, the sound half of joy and half of tears. Her hand came up to press her eyes, and when she took it away she laughed again, this time the sound entirely merry.

“Merry Christmas indeed! Oh, it’s beautiful! Wherever did you find—is that the discarded paper? My clever children, where did you learn to make these?”

“In the country,” Susan answered. She patted the chair. “Come and sit down, mother.” 

“Here, let me take your coat first,” Edmund said, stepping forward to take it off her shoulders.

“Susan and Lucy did most of it,” Peter informed her, pushing her gently to sit and kneeling to take off her shoes. Susan unwound the scarf and handed it to Peter to put away with the shoes. 

“Are you pleased, mother?” Lucy asked softly. 

One strong arm came up to hold her shoulders, pulling her in, and pulling Susan with the other.

“I am so, so pleased,” their mother breathed in their ears. “Not just with the beauty, and the decorations—though they are lovely—but with your beautiful, beautiful hearts, that you would do this for others.” She kissed Susan’s temple, then Lucy’s. “Of all the beautiful things in this room, the two of you are the most stunning,” she finished, hugging them more tightly for one moment. She moved her hand to Susan’s chin. “Your thoughtfulness and kindness are the most beautiful things your face has. And your joy and generosity shine from yours,” she told Lucy, the firm fingers lifting up her chin. “I could not have two more beautiful daughters. Thank you—thank you. Merry Christmas.” And kissed them once again, under the mistletoe hanging above her chair.


	2. England Decorated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: it is my full intention to own Narnia, but it’s also my full intention to own my own house without a mortgage, and I should probably work on that goal first.

Mrs. Pevensie sat in her chair. Not her hard wooden chair at work, with its creaks and sharp angles. No, this was her chair at home, her rocking chair, and that meant comfort. 

And now it meant beauty. For Mrs. Pevensie had two daughters and two sons, and several days ago they’d given her a great gift.

She lifted her hand to cover half her face, closing her eyes. It felt hard to take a breath. Even with her eyes closed, she remembered the light, covering the room in blue, red, green, and yellow. The girls had made everything beautiful here. With the glass around the lantern, the ceiling covered with stars and star-shaped shadows, and red ribbons looped like visible laughs along the mantle, all of it gleamed with warmth and merriment. 

And all of it hurt to see.

It hurt the way breathing in ice-chilled air hurt, a sharp stab of unexpected pain, merely from breathing. But oh, how her husband would have loved to see this. She felt a drop of warm water make its slow way down her hand, and she let the hand fall from her face, though she kept her eyes closed. She couldn’t bear to see the beauty when her heart was hurting so much, even on this Christmas Eve.

She’d gotten her children back, all four of them. That was a blessing half their neighbors would never receive. She clung to the thought of each one, knowing an air raid could have flown over on their way out of London, despite it being day; knowing the train could have collided with a station; knowing that even in the country, accidents happen. If she'd lost Lucy, the youngest, the child she could still hold in her lap, though it didn’t seem to happen now—only before, during the air raids—if she’d lost Lucy, the world would have been black. 

Or Edmund. Edmund, who came back with eyes she could never hide from. He was the first to see, in the mornings, that she’d given in to tears the night before, the one who never said much but knew, somehow, that being alone on those mornings was hard. He never left her alone, and losing him—

She forced her fingers to unclench from the chair. Susan’s sweet voice, beautiful face, her gentle hands and tongue, everything a mother could wish for in a daughter and more—all that had come safely back. 

So had Peter. Her oldest, stronger than she was, she knew, undisputed king of his younger siblings—and what had happened to cause that while they were gone? They might listen now, but Edmund especially used to fight him—Peter brought them home. Peter was  _ here _ . Peter was upstairs asleep, too young to go fight, but old enough to be their home’s defence and leader. For all that he was her son, he’d become the one they all turned to, including her, and they still had him.

She’d been given all four, and had been forced to give them away, to watch them leave and know it might be the last time. But it hadn’t been. She’d gotten them all  _ back _ , all  _ safe _ , they were  _ home _ —

She bent over, shoulders shuddering and both hands covering her face. She could feel the tears dripping, running down her fingers and onto her wrists. She tried to hold them back. She’d been given so much, _ so much _ , but her heart was begging for more. Just one more, just one. Just for John.

It begged for him to come home. She wanted him  _ home _ . She wanted him to sleep beside her, to hold her when she cried. She wanted to hear him say, “Steady, old girl,” in that calm voice of his, and for him to go on and on about some obscure Greek writer whose work had just been translated anew, while his eyes lit up. All of her wanted him to be  _ here _ .

But they’d heard nothing. And she’d come home and discovered just how great a gift her children were, how much they could do—and how much they loved her. 

It should be enough to tide her over, to help her wait, but somehow it wasn’t. It just hurt more. On these nights, it proved she had everything she wanted but just one thing. This night bore down harder than most, for today at work Mary had come in beaming, having gotten a telegram saying Henry was coming home. Then Elisabeth could talk of nothing but William arriving in two days, the day after Christmas, and the joy on her face made it beautiful. Then came the steps of the man they all dreaded, dressed from the war office, his hat in his hand and pity on his face. And he walked past her on the way to Jane. Jane’s Charles wasn’t coming home. And that could have been John.

She didn’t  _ know _ if he was coming home, and she tried to tell herself she had enough. She had so much. If she just opened her eyes she’d see it all, feel it, the comfort of her chair and the beauty of the room. The proof of how much she was loved. She had so many good things.

The good things shouldn’t hurt, but they did. They made her ache for the one who should be sharing them, for her children’s father, for her husband, for her professor who went to war and  _ might not be coming back _ . 

She heard a sound upstairs, small footsteps. She forced the sounds she’d been making back down her throat, holding her breath to keep them in, going still. The footsteps paused, and she listened for them to come down the stairs—how she hoped they wouldn’t. She didn’t want to be found crying like this, not when the girls had tried so hard—and she heard them again, going back to bed. The bedroom door opened and shut so quietly she couldn’t even hear it. 

She let that breath out, wiping the tears away with her sleeves and pulling out her handkerchief. She couldn't break down now, not so close to Christmas. She blew her nose. Christmas was a time of cheer. Her children loved it, as children do, and she’d be a good mother and be merry with them. 

She opened her eyes and saw the light glowing gently. She should put out the lantern and go to bed. If she didn’t cry much, sometimes Edmund didn’t notice, and didn’t worry. But—

She held the handkerchief tighter, clutching the thin fabric. She closed her eyes again. She didn’t know if she could do this. 

She sat there, rocking the chair slowly back and forth, trying to find the courage to get up, to go do what she knew she should be doing. But she couldn’t seem to get out of the chair. 

She heard the steps, heavier this time, just outside the door—perhaps the first was Lucy, and she’d gone to Peter, and she hadn’t heard him come down while blowing her nose. She tried to steady her breathing. The steps paused outside the closed door—of course, the light would shine under the doorway—and she called quietly, “I’m in here, Peter.” She checked her lap quickly for evidence of tear stains, brushing off a bit of lint, and then quickly folded her thin white handkerchief. “I was just about to put out the light,” she said as briskly as she could, standing to go to the mantle. If she blew it out, he wouldn’t be able to see her face.

“Leave it, please,” a deep, dear, familiar voice said behind her, and her fingers froze, outstretched towards the lantern. She spun, hand still out, and he stood in the doorway.  _ He stood in the doorway _ , ragged green coat, mud-caked boots, and suddenly she was running, running, burying her face in his shoulder and clinging to the cold, cold coat with both arms.

“John!” she cried into his coat, words muffled in the rough fabric under her face, and oh, he was holding her again, arms around her own shoulders, stronger than the timbers of their house. “John, John,  _ John!” _ She heard other noises, thumps upstairs, the door behind John hitting the wall, but all of it was lost in the sound of his voice.

“Steady, old-” and the catch in his voice wouldn’t let him finish, but she laughed through her tears anyway, lifting her head up. She let go of his waist to reach up and cradle his face, so much older looking with the beginnings of a beard and the wrinkled, sun-scorched skin, with the two small scars on one cheek. She traced them with his fingers, his face still cold, but oh, it was  _ John! _ His face blurred till she blinked, and hands she remembered came up to wipe her tears away.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmured, eyes fixed on her, and she laughed again. 

“Merry—Merry Christmas? Is that what you planned? To come home for Christmas?”

“I thought about it a hundred different ways.” His hands enclosed her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. “I’d walk up and Lucy would answer the door, and all of you would hear her laugh and come running, and I’d kiss you in the street as our children clung to us. Ron would get here ahead of me and you would all be waiting at the station, and we’d barely be able to walk home, holding on to the four kids and each other so tightly. I even thought of a mischievous one. I’d get a large box from somewhere and put myself under the tree, and hear all the questions from the kids on Christmas morning, hear your own surprise, and grin like Edmund after he caught the mouse, once you all opened it.” He still hadn’t taken his eyes off her face. “You are the most beautiful thing I have seen in years,” he murmured, and lowered his head to kiss her.

“Get back, we shouldn’t be watching this!” she heard hissed from the top of the stairs, and John broke off, touching his forehead to hers, and she could feel him smiling. 

“But it’s Dad!”

“And Mum’s crying! Give them a moment!”

“Just because  _ you’re _ as romantic as a Faun doesn’t mean I have to be, and it’s  _ Dad _ -”

“Edmund, be kind to your sister,” John called out in that deep, laughing voice. “Won’t the four of you come down and welcome me home?”

“YES!” came the chorus from the stairs, and in moments a flood of hugs came around her and John. She knew each by its touch: the gentle tightness of Susan’s, the strong circle of Peter’s arm, the firm fierceness of Edmund’s grasp, and the way Lucy’s fingers clutched her waist so tightly. All the words they’d been keeping back as they watched spilled out, and in the madness Peter and John both began drawing them into the room still lit by the lantern. Lucy’s face shown in the red light, Edmund whirled through the green to pull up a chair, and Susan knelt in the yellow to take off John’s boots. Peter stood above them all, his father’s hand still in both of his, looking at him with welcome and question.

“Welcome home, sir,” he said quietly, and his siblings paused. John withdrew his hand from hers, and she let him, watching with blinking eyes as he put his other hand over Peter’s.

“You kept them safe, son.”

“I had help,” and Peter smiled.

John’s eyes went to the girl—the woman, who knelt at his feet. She looked up at him with that clear, hospitable, graceful gaze, and Mrs. Pevensie brought her hand to her mouth. She knew he saw what she had seen, the lady, nay, almost the Queen, who dwelt in that spirit. She pressed her fingers hard against her lips, and suddenly a hand was on her elbow, holding her. She knew without looking that it would be Edmund. John’s eyes caught the movement, turning to see his younger son standing guard over his mother, and turned at last to Lucy, his coat in her hands, smiling from the door with that deep, astonishing joy, too solemn for a little child and yet just right for her. 

“And Mother brought us all home,” Peter said quietly, as if he’d read everything his father took in without looking away. As if he knew his siblings that well. John stretched out his hand to his wife, and she took it, tumbling into his lap at his insistent pull. And that set their children to laughing again, to hurrying to their tasks and then gathering round. Edmund sat on the arm of the chair across from her, Peter on a chair nearby, and the girls at her feet. Their  _ family _ , all together. All home. She rested her head on his shoulder and watched as the smiles grew brighter than the lights, more joyful than the ribbons, and their hearts soared higher than the stars.

“Welcome home,” she whispered in the found one’s ear, and his arm tightened around her.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered back. 


End file.
